


Bound To Be (Day 1: Reunion)

by ifyouwereamelody



Series: The Worlds Through Which We Weave (Zutara Week 2020) [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Soulmates, Zutara Week, Zutara Week 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:07:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25578547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifyouwereamelody/pseuds/ifyouwereamelody
Summary: They grind to a halt, out of ideas, but by this point Katara’s pretty clear on precisely two things:One, however much she might have felt as though she did, she does not know this man.But, two, she kind of likes him.Do you ever think that some things are inevitable?
Relationships: Katara & Zuko (Avatar), Katara/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: The Worlds Through Which We Weave (Zutara Week 2020) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1853797
Comments: 12
Kudos: 134





	Bound To Be (Day 1: Reunion)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello, Zutara fans! I'm running late to the game on this, partly because I didn't start putting anything together until like three days before ZW started, and partly because I clearly have no control over my word counts.
> 
> I'm trying something different, here - I've never written AU before in my life, and now for some reason I've got this whole thing planned out using AUs, so... we'll see how that goes, I guess?
> 
> Be warned: this first one really lulls you into a false sense of security. Do not be fooled, because the majority of what I've got planned may well come as a bit of a punch in the gut. I don't know, I don't make the rules. As things stand, each fic can be read as an independent one-shot, but I would urge you to read them all, and to read them in order - if you do then my hope is you'll reach the end feeling... perhaps not happy, but hopeful? If not, you may well just end up sad. But hey, your choice!
> 
> But if you do nothing else, please, PLEASE read the trigger warnings for each entry - I'm hopeless at gauging ratings, so I've started putting TWs at the start of each chapter I write, and there are definitely going to be some potentially triggering things in this series. The serious ones are always listed first.
> 
> TW: References to abuse, home invasion, and murder (yes, I really mean it when I say that this is one of the happy ones). Quite sweary. Lots of sarcasm. Short tempers.

'Do I know you?'

Her question seems to catch him by surprise. The boy – Zenko or Seiko or... something like that – had already turned away to follow the rest of the group as they weave their way inside to the clamour of the party, but now he twists back towards her, surveying her side-on with a frown caught in the creases of his forehead.

'Uh... No?'

A short answer. Succinct. Practical.

Any other time, Katara would take it as a pretty blunt indication that the conversation has come to an end before it's ever really begun, but tonight... Well, kusu always makes her more persistent (okay, stubborn) and curious ( _okay_ , nosy) anyway, but something about the way he replies – the upwards tilt in his voice as he rounds out the _no_ – gives her the impression that perhaps he's not actually trying to shut her down.

And then there's the fact that he just seems so-

'Sorry, I just- I have no idea where we might've have met before, even, you just seem really familiar.'

It _hangs_ around him, the sense of this being someone she already knows somehow, vague and wafting as the cigarette smoke that drifts across the garden towards them and catches in the back of her throat when she speaks. The light from the lanterns that decorate the place is cloudy with it, throwing the guy into an almost ethereal haze as he turns fully to face her. A sceptical kind of smirk has made its way onto his lips, as if he's not sure whether or not she's fucking with him, not sure what to make of her.

'Is this meant to be some kind of play or something?'

Katara feels heat bloom across her face, her chin lifting in knee-jerk defiance, but even as it does she can't quite hold back the smile, the mocking raise of her brow that accompanies it.

'No, just genuinely asking. Sorry to disappoint.'

He scoffs, a sharp burst of breath through his nose that doesn't quite make it to laughter. Crossing his arms over his chest, he sinks back into his stance as his eyes travel slowly over her. It should make her feel objectified. It _would_ make her feel objectified, if it weren't for the fact that there's something undeniably calculating about his gaze. She could just be being hopelessly naïve, but she's experienced _that_ kind of look before – that hungry, raking stare that guys always seem to think is either much more subtle or much more charming than it actually is – and this doesn't feel like it.

No, the way he's looking at her feels more... honest. More searching. Like he's trying to drop her into different scenes from his life and make her solid, figure out where she might fit.

Or, you know, maybe she's just tipsy and totally projecting. Very plausible. Whilst it might make her more persistent (shut up) and curious (shut _up_ ), kusu definitely does not make Katara smarter.

'You're from the south, right? I can tell by your accent.'

She nods in confirmation and he gives a one-shouldered shrug.

'I've never been down that way. You ever visited Caldera, out west?'

'Nope. Summer camp in Omashu Forest?'

'Never fancied Lyme disease, personally.'

'Interscholastic debate?'

'Not got an argumentative bone in my body.'

'Ha, why do I feel like that's categorically not true?'

'You're the one who thinks we've met before – you tell me.'

'I don't know, call it intuition.'

'Hm. Skiing up north, Yue Mountain Resort?'

'I mean, my dad isn't a billionaire, and he's never been involved in any kind of public scandal, so no. Martial arts?'

Something sparks in his eyes – such an intense shade of hazel that they're nearly gold in this light, she won't pretend she hasn't noticed – and honestly, if her ears could prick up, they would.

'Shaolin Kung Fu. You?'

Damn. She shakes her head.

'Tai Chi Chuan.'

'Huh.'

'Yeah.'

They grind to a halt, out of ideas, but by this point Katara's pretty clear on precisely two things:

One, however much she might have felt as though she did, she does not know this man.

But, two, she kind of _likes_ him? As much as you can like anyone that you thought you recognised but didn't actually recognise and have only spoken to for all of, like, a minute.

A few seconds pass before she realises that they're basically just standing there staring at each other, and she cocks her head, feeling the smile that she's no longer trying to hold back spread across her face again.

'Well, maybe in anoth-'

'Katara!'

Perhaps she's been too caught up in the conversation, or perhaps her new flatmate is just particularly adept at sneaking up on people, but the interruption is almost jarring in its abruptness, a wince-inducing intrusion into the cocoon that the night and the smoke and the alcohol have conspired to wrap around them – suddenly, there's a hand on her arm, and Suki's pulling her in the direction of the door without Katara even having noticed her come outside.

' _There_ you are! Come on, some guy challenged Toph to an arm wrestle and I'm pretty sure things aren't going to go the way he expects them to.'

The girl's eyes are bright and determined, her grip insistent, and there seems to be no denying her. As Katara's dragged off into the noise of the party, she throws a glance over her shoulder at the guy – _Zoro?_ She's almost certain his name begins with a 'Z' – and she shrugs helplessly, unfurling a laugh that trails through the air in her wake.

'Maybe in another life.'

He rolls his eyes at that. But she just manages to catch the corners of his mouth quirking upwards before he's swallowed by the dark – or maybe it's her who's swallowed by the crowd – and then she can't see him anymore.

* * *

'Another life?'

She's not sure if he _finds_ her or just kind of stumbles across her. The party is in full swing, a dizzy mess of garbled music and sticky surfaces and pheromones, and it's hard to fathom successfully finding anything in its midst – Katara can certainly attest to the hopelessness of her own search for Toph and Suki, which lasted for all of eight minutes before she gave up on cramming herself through non-existent gaps in the throng, instead snatching up a seat on the least offensive couch she could see.

He appears at her left shoulder, standing with one arm crossed over his chest as the other nurses a half-finished bottle of beer, and his voice runs low and resonant underneath the sharp pitch of the party.

Twisting to look up at him over the couch back, Katara despairs inwardly at the frankly impertinent _grin_ that tries to force its way past her higher faculties and onto her lips, and opts instead for something with just a touch more bite to it.

'Been ruminating on that, have you?'

He shrugs.

'Your friend pulled you away before you could clarify what you meant.'

'Clarify? Is there really anything _to_ clarify? I mean, isn't that just the sort of thing people come out with when they're trying to explain the inexplicable?'

The girls who've been taking up the rest of the space on the couch – who, Katara thinks it's worth acknowledging, spent the last ten minutes singing along to the party's soundtrack with an unwarranted but commendable amount of confidence – seem to reach the conclusion that their feet have now recovered enough to mount a charge back into the chaos that is the dancefloor. As they leave, the guy slips smoothly around the arm of the sofa to stand before the gap that they've left.

'Can I sit?'

At her nod, he sinks down onto the cushion next to her, grimacing slightly at the tackiness of the fabric against his clothes (it was the least offensive couch she could see, yes, but still aggressively far from being anything like pleasant). It's the closest he's been to her yet, and with his new proximity comes a snap of frisson that crackles across the space between them, a heightened intensity to that same bizarre feeling of recognition – of _intimacy_ – that she'd felt before.

Which, seriously, is completely ridiculous. She's still not even sure what he's _called_ , for God's sake. Speaking of which-

'Sorry, what was your name, again?'

He lets out a muted laugh.

(A lot of what he does seems to be muted.)

'Wow. That really hurts coming from someone who apparently already knows me.'

'I never said I knew you, I said you seemed familiar.'

'I would argue they're pretty much the same thing.'

'Well, I thought you _didn't have an argumentative bone in your body._ '

'I don't-'

'You literally just used the word 'argue' to describe what you're doing – this is going to be a difficult sell on your part.'

'I think you'll find I actually said I _would_ argue. I _would_ , but I won't. Because I'm not argumentative.'

Semantics. God, is it totally pathetic of her to be getting excited over a debate about semantics? But before Katara can dig herself too deep into that thought, the man smiles a crooked challenge of a smile that hits her somewhere so deep and reminiscent that it's practically fucking archaic, and his face is clearer in this light than it was before and yes his eyes are definitely more gold than they are brown and holy _hell_.

Perhaps it's more than just semantics that she's getting excited over.

'You- You weren't at the same induction seminar as me today, were you?'

A blatant deflection on her part. So blatant, in fact, that her own tongue seems to decide it doesn't want to participate and trips over the words.

His brow lifts.

'Difficult to say when I don't know what you're here for.'

'Right, of course. Law.'

'Ah, I see. That makes sense.'

_Hold up._

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Jeez, nothing. I'm just acknowledging what you said.'

'You had a tone.'

'I had a t- Ugh, okay. It's just, of _course_ you're a fucking high-achiever. Competitive summer program, national debate team, you use words like 'ruminate' in everyday conversation... Plus you're sitting at a party sipping fucking kusu on the rocks instead of pounding beers like everyone else, so...'

'What does that have to do with anything?'

'It just adds to the whole pretentious vibe, doesn't it?'

She chokes indignantly –

(insults with a hint of truth in them are always the hardest to swallow, always the ones that get stuck on the way down)

– and shoots back at him.

'I'm sorry, _pretentious_? Look who's talking – expensive watch, kamon ring, members-only ski resort in the northern mountains... The whole thing just screams 'spoilt country club douchebag who's here to spend four years getting hammered with his twatty friends'. Or, wait, maybe your dad _made_ you come because he can't give you a cushy job in whatever high-flying business he owns until you're qualified. Am I close?'

The thing is, even as she's saying it, it doesn't feel _right_? This guy's angles are all wrong, the grooves and surfaces of him stubbornly refusing to flatten as she tries to press them into the shallow box that she's so pettily, so hastily constructed for him.

But it's out now, and she can't pull the words back in, can't rewind and release her judgement on him more slowly. The air in her lungs is still swirling hot and confrontational anyway, unwilling to ease despite the obvious downslide that the conversation is taking. The guy (whose name she _still doesn't know_ , for God's sake) has tensed where he sits, his voice twisting tight under the traction of her words.

'Not even slightly.'

'Well, any time you want to set me straight, then by all means-'

'Right, right, so you can act even more superior?'

'I do _not_ act superior.'

'Of course, no need to act when it's just who you are, yeah?'

'Asshole.'

'Prig.'

Oh, man. How did things deteriorate this fast from light ribbing to real, barbed cracks at one another? How many chances did they get to turn back and re-calibrate before they reached this point? How is he getting so under her skin after so little time, and is it normal to feel this weirdly comfortable fighting with someone you've just met, and why does he have to be so _infuriatingly_ -

_Breathe._

She should let it go; back down and let things de-escalate.

'You know that no one even wears kamon rings anymore, right?'

(She's never been very good at backing down.)

'Pretty rich given that crappy bit of tin you've got around your neck.'

'Okay, _fuck_ you.'

Even she's surprised by how forcefully the words spit from her mouth, a searing flash of return fire that cuts through the air between them to hit him square in the chest. In the dense, bewildered silence that follows, as they both sit and wait for the dust to settle so they can take in what's been made of their battleground, Katara deflates back in her seat, breathing slow and cool to soothe the flare of her temper. She doesn't look at him for a long time, and then when her eyes finally do flicker in his direction she finds him pale-faced and wide-eyed; the expression of someone who had no idea how deep he was cutting.

'Just... Just don't, okay?'

He clears his throat.

'I'm sorry. I didn't know how-... I didn't realise that was such a-'

'There's no way you could've done. I-... I'm sorry too.'

'You didn't do anything.'

'I mean, I did suggest that you didn't care about anything other than getting wasted. With absolutely no supporting evidence. And I called your friends twatty, called you an asshole... _and_ a douchebag... forgot your name...'

His brow lifts, a glimmer of amusement coming back into his eyes, gaze fixed on her face as he presses a fist into the heel of his palm and dips his head in her direction.

'Zuko.'

' _Zuko._ That's right.'

'Yeah, I've got a pretty good handle on it after living with it for twenty two years. I get it right more often than not nowadays.'

'Hilarious. I'm Katara.'

'I know. See, I actually paid attention when they were going around the circle introducing everybody.'

'Alright, firstly-'

And so they go on.

* * *

'It's just... weird.'

'Yeah, I'd say that's a pretty fair assessment of things.'

Katara's watching, perturbed, unable to look away – much as one might watch a natural disaster unfold – as the couple sitting in the armchair nearby who have been arguing loudly for the last half hour start making out in a way that she can only describe as belligerent. And gross.

'That can't be a healthy relationship dynamic.'

'No, I mean that-...'

An exasperated sigh comes rattling vehemently up Zuko's throat, as if he's trying to shake the vulnerability from the back of his tongue before he speaks, and the coarseness of it pulls her gaze back to him.

'I mean that-... usually-... once people have met me, they, uh-... they don't seem to forget my face. So it's weird that you've been wondering if we've met before given that I'm quite sure you'd remember it if we had.'

Right.

So, it's not as if Katara hasn't noticed the burn. Obviously. It flares demandingly, _furiously_ across his face, as though someone's tried to wipe his left eye clean off him using something red-hot and pitiless. There's absolutely no way she could possibly have missed it. But bringing it up could only ever have gone badly –

(people's most obvious scars, the ones they can't hide, that they have no choice but to bare to the world and hope will be accepted... those tend to be the ones they're most hair-trigger poised to defend)

– so even at her most riled earlier on, she wasn't about to mention it before he did.

Now, though...

Now, Zuko's frowning at the floor, his elbows braced stiffly against his knees, and he's fiddling clumsily with his ring, twisting it around his finger in a kind of loaded way that makes her think perhaps he-

'Do you want to talk about it?'

Maybe, if they can joke and fight as if they've known each other for years... Maybe, under cover of music and alcohol and this false veneer of familiarity, they can talk about their demons too.

But his hands tighten into fists, and his shoulders hunch even further, and his voice snaps at her from the shadows cast by the dark hair that hangs over his face.

'I don't talk about it.'

'Okay. Okay, you don't have to. I just wondered.'

He falls silent, leaving her to lean back and watch him where he sits. And as she watches him, a voice sounds in her head, stern and sensible –

_You do not know this man. He is not yours to comfort._

– but it seems that her body is no longer at the behest of her mind, forgoing sense and instead paying heed to a louder, more resounding impulse –

_This man wants to be known. Reach out. Reach out._

– which pulls from somewhere deep in the pit of her stomach, and draws her hand up to rest gently on the ridge of his shoulder.

Zuko doesn't straighten, doesn't soften, but at her touch his head tilts sideways to look up at her through the fringe of his hair, shrewd and searching just as he'd looked at her earlier. After a moment, he blows out a harsh puff of breath and drops his chin back down towards his chest. His hand comes up to run hard over his face, as though he might be able to scrub it clear and wipe himself free of any need to make peace with his past.

'My father did it.'

The words come grinding out of him.

'When I was thirteen. Hot oil. Took the dinner pan off the burner, held me down, and-'

He tilts his hand, a mimed pour.

'He'd always been... you know... but that was the worst. Couldn't hide it anymore after that. He got taken in and my sister and I went to our uncle. That's who gave me the watch, and the ring was-'

A sharp sniff.

'It's my mother's kamon, her onna mon. My father never let her wear it, said that she'd left her family behind when she married him. She disappeared when I was ten. Just vanished overnight. My father said that she left, but I always thought- Nothing was ever proven.'

Silence.

Silence for a long time.

'Holy shit. Holy _shit_.'

_Say something better than that._

'You- Oh my God, Zuko, I-... I'm so sorry.'

It's not often that Katara finds herself stuck for words. But then, it's not as if there's really anything she _can_ say that could ever make this better. And suddenly, the nebulous sense of nostalgia that surrounds him sharpens a little, becomes that bit more defined.

Because she recognises it all.

Recognises the way that he spoke as he was telling his story – the deliberately blunted, matter-of-fact tone of someone desperate to be seen, to be acknowledged, but still shielding, hiding from whatever fallout might come of exposing themselves so keenly.

Recognises the way his hand is shaking as she takes it in her own, the second's hesitation before his fingers tighten on hers in response.

Recognises the way he re-sets, drawing in a deep breath and pulling his shoulders back, before turning the spotlight off himself and onto her with a nod to the chain that hangs around her neck.

'What about that? You wanna talk about that?'

And she doesn't mean to, but she laughs out loud before she can stop herself. His brow furrows, eyes wide and alarmed, and she waves a hand in reassurance as she folds the laughter back down into her chest.

'Sorry. I'm sorry, it's not funny at all, actually, it's just-'

It's just, what are the odds?

'This was _my_ mother's. She, uh...'

_Deep inhale, and breathe the words steady._

'She was killed in a home invasion when I was eight; a robbery that went wrong, apparently.'

 _Went wrong._ Katara's always hated that phrase. As if a life is taken in the same way that one might flood a bathroom by leaving a tap running – a blunder, a slip-up, an unfortunate side-effect of someone's carelessness.

'I was there. Dad and my brother were away on a fishing trip, Mum had let me stay up late so we could watch the opening ceremony being broadcast live, and this man just appeared at the door. Pried it right open. Mum told me to hide, and I think she tried to reason with him... I knew enough to call the police from the upstairs phone, but the time they arrived...'

She sees it as she always does these days, in snapshots rather than as a full, moving reel, through a filmy kind of sheen which filters out any true sense of smell or colour or touch. The story cuts to her core every time, but with each retelling the memory itself seems to have faded a little more.

Zuko doesn't say anything, but somewhere along the way _he's_ become the one holding _her_ hand rather than the other way around (she's not sure what makes the difference, but she's sure that there is one). And she wonders if he feels the same way that she does – strangely rooted where she would expect to feel adrift.

The laughter makes its way up her throat again, a kind of sobbing titter that leaves her feeling lighter. A little self-conscious. Achy, but kind of in a good way?

'Fuck.'

He sighs softly, chuckles softly, speaks softly, and she doesn't want him to stop.

'Yeah. Fuck.'

The colours of the party have blurred together, light fracturing through the tears stuck in her eyes. When she brushes them clear, he's smiling again, small and substantial.

'Katara, can I get you another drink?'

'Yes. Please.'

* * *

'You think it's real, then? The whole 'other life' thing?'

'You just keep coming back to this, huh?'

They've barely moved from their spot on the sofa, a fixed point as the party has whirled then calmed around them. With the clock ticking on, disorder has given way to murmured conversations, strobes to lamplight, the heavy, pounding beats to some acoustic number about balconies and tragedy and star-crossed lovers.

How long have they been here, now? Two hours? Three? Katara really doesn't know. She really can't bring herself to care.

She does know – and cares much more than is really appropriate – that she's gone from sitting next to Zuko, to curled up against the arm of the couch, to stretched out with her legs draped over his lap. His hands are warm where they rest at her knees, his eyes glowing amber in the low light.

'I'm interested. Humour me.'

'Well, I guess you are pretty easy to laugh at.'

Okay, okay, she's flirting a little. She's a young, smart, almost-more-than-slightly drunk woman who's looking at a young, funny, undeniably attractive man who somehow feels like a memory, and she's flirting. So sue her.

'Oh, come on.'

She makes a sighing, blustering show of her concession, sitting up straight and pulling her legs out from under his hands, then tucking them beneath her as she rests her shoulder against the sofa back.

'You're very demanding, you know that?'

'It's a point of pride.'

'Ugh. Alright, don't laugh, okay?'

'No promises. Depends how stupid it is.'

She makes a half-hearted swipe at him which is completely undermined by the fact that a) she misses, and b) she smiles.

'I think... Do you ever think that some things are inevitable? You know, bound to be? My mother used to say there are some people that we're tied to, people we're just meant to find no matter what life or universe we're in. And even though we don't remember the times we've met them before, we'll always feel this draw towards them.'

He shifts slightly in his seat, lets his arm fall across the back of the couch next to her head.

(Is she always this warm?)

(Is _he_ always this warm?)

'Sounds like a soulmate thing.'

'I guess it is, kind of.'

There are no longer any rocks in her kusu on the rocks, she notes, but she sips at it anyway as she mulls over the thought.

(It does not cool her down. This is why rocks are so important.)

(Definitely the lack of rocks that's the issue, here.)

'Perhaps it's what happens when two people need more than one chance. Every time things go wrong beyond repair, the world just kind of shuffles and re-sets, waiting to see if this time they get it right. What do you think?'

The corner of his mouth lifts, and he jerks his head towards the rockless glass in her hand.

'I think you've had enough of that.'

Accurate. Not appreciated.

'Oh, come on! Haven't you ever had that feeling? Like you _know_ someone before you actually know them?'

Zuko watches her for a moment, and then looks away, out across the room.

But his arm stays in its place across the sofa back, and his hand brushes against her hair.

'Maybe I have.'

* * *

'You think that's what this is?'

Because by this point it's clear that there is, undeniably, no matter how transient it might turn out to be, a _this_.

She started floating from wake to sleep somewhere between the alcohol turning in her head and the touch of his fingers behind her ear, but now she pulls herself up and out of the tides enough to manage a smile, a half-shrug.

'Why not?'

'If that were true, then we would've met before tonight. This wouldn't be an introduction, it'd be...'

'It'd be a reunion.'

'Huh.'

Fist, palm, nod. Are her eyes even open?

'It's good to meet you. Again.'

And she drifts away on the distant sound of his laughter.

* * *

They don't talk much the next morning –

'Hi.'

'Hi.'

– and Katara reckons they both hold a few things worth regretting after the night they've had –

(She's exhausted.)

(Her head is pounding.)

(There's a crick in her neck that tells her that falling asleep slumped over the back of the sofa was a _big_ mistake.)

– but, honestly, could any of that possibly matter less?

The sky is clear and grey, the air cool. She feels _clean_ , somehow (a completely ridiculous notion given the state of the house they've just left), and Zuko... he seems more real, more tangible. Less back-lit and dream-like. He's awkward, she finds out, awkward and faltering as he offers to walk her back to her flat, but his eyes are still gilded, his smile still dizzying when she accepts.

As they walk, she can't help but feel the need to address her drunken ramblings from last night.

'I'm sorry. You know, if that was weird before.'

He frowns at her.

'What?'

'The whole _soulmates_ thing, I-... I mean, I didn't mean to-'

Okay, so perhaps she's a little awkward too.

'No, you- No. It was fine. Don't worry about it.'

A pause.

'Bit weird, though.'

_God, Katara, he said not to worry about it, so just leave it alone. This odd kind of self-deprecation is not a good look._

'Yeah, a bit.'

'All probably just a load of nonsense.'

'Perhaps. But-'

They pull to a halt outside her door, and she turns to face him, keys in hand as she waits for the rest of his sentence. He's fidgety, crossing and uncrossing his arms, running a hand back through his already sleep-mussed hair, a hint of a crease between his eyebrows.

'But... what?'

'But maybe, just in case, I- Um...'

And something in his gaze, in the way he tilts just fractionally towards her, makes her breath catch in realisation.

'Zuko?'

'Yeah.'

'Are you-... Are you going to kiss me?'

'I, uh... I was thinking about it, yeah. Would you- I mean, would that be okay?'

In a way, it seems absurd that he should ask, because she can't really conceive of any world in which her answer wouldn't be a clear and resounding yes, but the act of his asking only serves to sway her that bit closer towards him, to open the space between her ribs a little wider so that he might slip into her chest more easily.

It's everything that defines a first kiss – an inelegant, uncertain meeting of lips that stops and starts as they figure out how to share breaths, how to find their tempo – but even in its clumsiness it feels like a sequence that they've danced through before, together. His fingertips slip into the hair at the nape of her neck, his thumb running over the angle of her jaw as if he already knows its contours. Her hand curls lightly against his shirt, and even the beating of his heart feels like a rhythm that her body has thoroughly memorised.

He pulls away, and the loss of him is a negative space whose shape she knows, his breathy laugh a sound that has brushed up against her in times past.

'So... I'll call you?'

'Yeah. Yes. Um. I mean, I imagine that'll be tricky when you don't have my number, but-'

'Oh, fuck, right.'

When she pushes the door closed behind her, she's all but bombarded by Suki and Toph, the two women plying her with rapid-fire questions about what happened to her last night.

'Where did you disappear off to?'

'Who was the guy?'

'Did you get some?'

'You seemed very close, did you know him already?'

And Katara laughs, her face hot.

'No, not at all. Until last night, I'd-'

She pauses. Smiles. Shrugs.

'I'd never met the guy before in my life.'

**Author's Note:**

> Who doesn't like a bit of fluff? Let me know what you think, and buckle in for the rest of the week!


End file.
